Nice Legs, What Time They Open?
by Artemis Fenir
Summary: Alfred F. Jones loves a fine pair of legs. What happens when he sees a certain Brit with a pair finer than the rest? Fail title and summary, don't sue me for 'em. AU, rather M for language. Smut in later chapters, however. (title and summary subject to change when something better comes along).
1. Chapter 1

There was three things that Alfred F. Jones loved: he loved the hell outta video games, he loved the hell outta hamburgers, and he loved the hell outta legs. Oh boy, did he _love_ a fine pair of legs.

It didn't matter which gender the legs belonged to, he loved the differences between men's and women's legs. Shapely, sculpted, subtle legs were his thing. While he preferred the bed company of men, he had been on adventures with women solely because she had possessed a truly stellar pair of legs. He liked asses, sure, and he occasionally like chests and arms and everything other _normal_ turn on for a person, but if he could just have a pair of killer legs, he was happy.

And that was exactly why he had decided to prowl around the local gay bar, named _The Tower. _A good friend had informed him that the bar had a new employee with legs to die for and a spunky attitude to match them.It was a bar with decent taste, nothing too shabby and nothing too sparkly (honestly, he'll never understand why people associate _sparkles_ with _gay_).However, Alfred noted that the only thing that the servers wore was a pair of bright orange shorty shorts. He definitely didn't mind, some of them had nice legs, and the shorts certainly accentuated them.

Alfred snickered as he remember Francis telling him how the new server smacked him across the face when he suggested they 'get to know one another better' (_"That saucy little Brit, how dare him ruin moi's beautiful face?!"_).

Of course, the American couldn't turn down a chance to meet this man with great legs _and_ with the ability to turn down the Frenchman. Unfortunately, he had been here for a few hours and he hadn't caught a single glimpse. Maybe he wasn't working tonight...?

"Oh, bloody hell, I'm sorry I'm late. Traffic here is terrible, bastards can't drive to save their lives." A thick British accent cut across the room to where Alfred was sitting, making him note absently that he rather liked the accent.

"No, no, Arthur, it is fine. I understand." Antiono, the bar's Spanish owner and long time friend of Francis, answered. "_Amigo_, you're usually always on time, so now and then I can forgive."

"Well, thank you, but still, it won't happen again."

Not wanting to be noticeable about it, Alfred had been taking his time to move his line of sight over to the Spaniard and Brit. When he finally reached his goal, he scanned the British man from head to toe. He was a head shorter than himself and a few years older, with messy blond hair and bright emerald eyes that were framed with thick eyebrows. His face had a rather sour look on it, and Alfred was amazed that it was still attractive despite that. Unfortunately, the Brit was wearing street clothes, several covering layers of it, so he had no idea what his legs looked like.

Oh well, he would just have to wait til he changed into uniform.

He watched the man disappear into a backroom, and then immediately became bored of waiting. It wasn't too long before he all but forgot about the man in question and started to make a game of counting the beer bottles left on the tables of customers past. He had been on 69 (_heh, 69, what an appropriate name for a gay bar_, he mused_) _when something stole his attention.

_Oh say can you see, by the bar's florescent liiiiight_...

If he had seen a better pair of legs in his life before this, he couldn't remember them now. In front of him were the greatest damn legs he had ever laid eyes on. His eyes traveled up and down them, admiring the curves of the calves and the muscle stretching under taunt skin. They looked like they went on for _miles_, smooth and shapely miles. He could gaze at their perfection for hours.

"Oi, you staring at my arse?!"

"Uh, whut - ?" The angered voice snapped him out of his trance, being vaguely aware the voice had a British accent.

His eyes finally went up to the legs owner's face. Oh, Francis had been right - that new Brit _did_ have killer legs. Alfred was hooked, he wanted him. Badly.

He grinned his trademark grin, the one that everyone fell for. He knew he was good looking, and a real charmer. He shouldn't have too much trouble getting out of trouble and getting the Brit out of those shorts and into his bed.

"Nah, doll, I was staring at your legs. Real nice looking." Alfred winked for emphasis. "What say you come home with me tonight, after your shift?"

The Brit looked at him blankly for a minute, before his face turned red and the American swore he heard teeth grinding together. However, he didn't have time to see and hear much else after being throughly and forcefully slapped across the face.

"You fucking wanker, sod off! I'm a waiter, not some goddamn hooker. Go find one in the alley way, I'm sure you know a few of them working tonight!" And with that, the Brit with amazing legs stormed off.

Blinking, Alfred could feel a grin cross his face again.

He always did enjoy a challenge.

**A/N: First off, I want to apologize for my pun on **_**The Star Spangled Banner, **_**it was awful, I know x.x I couldn't help myself. Second, I want to thank SR for another amazing idea. I hope everyone will enjoy reading this as much as I will writing this ;3**


	2. Chapter 2

"I'm telling you, Francis, I think I'm in love."

"With an ill-tempered, sour, bitchy little Englishman?"

"Correction: an ill-tempered, sour, bitchy little Englishman with _amazing_ legs."

Alfred bursted out laughing at the exasperated sigh coming from his older friend. They were sitting across from one another at Francis's table, discussing the American's time at the bar. Of course, there had been a few more slaps to the face, rude name calling, and splashed drinks all over his clothes.

Needless to say, the more the leggy blond refused, the more the leg-crazed blond wanted.

The Frenchman shook his head and looked at Alfred seriously. "You're not in love, silly boy. You see a challenge to conquer. You and I both know, once you bed him, you'll be done."

For some reason, Alfred felt wounded at his words. Sure, he wasn't the most _committed_ guy out there, but he wasn't a man whore either. He crossed his arms stubbornly and leaned back against his chair, childishly refusing to meet Francis's gaze.

"You avoid my eyes because I am right, oui?"

Oh, he hated when Francis did that.

"No, I just don't wanna look at your stupid face," he retorted.

The Frenchman groused, "Oui, oui, that's it. Of course, silly me for not guessing such an obvious answer." There was a pause before he spoke again."Seriously, you can't just _look_ at his legs and say you've fallen in love with the man."

"Why not?" It was an honest question on the American's part. There was love at first sight, right? Didn't it apply here?

From the outraged look on his friend's face, he guessed not.

"Really, you know nothing of love. It's not a thing to belittle so, and it's not something you can use just to sleep with someone. Amour is a wonderful thing that people share with one another, and you spit upon it, mon ami!" There was so much fire and passion in his companion's eyes. However, this exact conversation had happened so many times, it no longer fazed the younger man.

"Yes, yes, I'm a horrible guy for not caring about anyone's feelings but my own, no one will ever fall in love with me because I'm incapable of love, blah blah blah." Alfred rolled his eyes. "Dude, you've said it a million times before."

"Obviously, I need to say it more, until it drills through your thick skull." The Frenchman sighed, disappointment evident."Anyway, mon ami, I have somewhere to be, and I'm sure you have a table at the bar waiting for you. Au revoir, lock up when you leave."

As he watched his friend get up and leave, a thought started to formulate in his head. It was a small thought, but it rapidly grew as he got up to leave as well. By the time he had turned off all the lights and was locking up, it was an outrageous plan that he fully intended to put into action.

He was going to make that leg-tastic blond fall in love with him, and show Francis that he _could_ keep someone around.

X

There was three things that Alfred F. Jones hated: he hated the hell outta being stuck on a video game, he hated the hell outta when people forgot onions on his hamburgers, and he hated the hell outta people hitting on the pair of legs _he_ wanted to hit on. Oh man, did he _hate_ those people.

He had been sitting at a table, watching as young and old men alike hit on _his_ Brit, for hours now. He could feel his blood boiling more and more with each guy that made passes at the blond server. To top it all off, he had been ignored by said blond all damn night. Every attempt to flag down the server had been met with glares and cold shoulders. Oh well, at least he could stare at those legs...

He tilted his head, shamelessly admiring his legs. The more he looked, the more he noticed how truly fantastic they were. He shaved them, and for some reason that pleased Alfred, and they were toned much like runner's legs. The Brit liked to shift which leg he balanced on while he was standing around, but would immediately switch to his left when he started talking to someone. He had a long stride, stretching and flexing his leg muscles for the whole bar to admire.

Of course, as much as he loved _looking_, he would much rather be _touching_. The only way he could touch was to make the Brit fall in love with him...

Alfred had no idea how to do that, though. He could get to know the man, but it was obvious that he wanted nothing to do with him. He could buy him candy and roses, but he didn't seem like the type to be wooed like a woman. He could throw money at him, but he could just tell he was a man with pride. Poetry, however, maybe that could work. He WAS British, after all, and he had heard they loved literature.

He flailed around until he found a napkin, and pulled out a pen he luckily forget about from his pocket.

The bespectacled man smirked; oh, he was totally going to prove Francis wrong.

* * *

Eyes strained and tired from the overuse and the bright florescent light, he read over his poem one more time, making sure it was as he wanted. He committed every word to memory, the feeling of victory bubbling up in him. It was perfect, it was gold.

It was going to get him laid tonight, he was sure of it.

Thankfully, the bar was close to closing and most of the patrons and servers had left. Besides a few older men sitting in the corner and the man serving them, there was only Alfred and his Brit. Since the server he had earlier left, the emerald-eyed man had no choice but to wait on the American. He just wished that he wouldn't constantly show his displeasure by repeatedly spilling beers on his pants. It wasn't going to make him leave. Or quit staring at his legs.

He watched the Briton across the room, setting a few glasses and the like in their place at the bar. This was perfect, all he had to do now was get his attention.

He placed his elbow on the table and rested his chin in his hand, grinning like a loon and called out in mock sweetness, "Oh _sweeeeeetheart~_, could you c'mere for a minute?"

The server turned his head to look over his shoulder so fast, Alfred was curious as to how he didn't get dizzy. "Call me sweetheart again, and I will castrate you. With a rusted spoon." Oh, he got his attention, alright.

"Fine then. How about darling?"

"Only if you never want anyone to find your body."

"Whatever. Anyway, I wrote you something, so take a listen!" He noted the change in the Brit's demeanor. He seemed almost intrigued, and slightly less annoyed. Maybe poetry really _was_ the way to go. Score for Alfred, none for Francy pants. He cleared his throat, confidence emitting from his every pore.

"_Hey there, good looking_

_With legs so fine_

_Why don't you stop being bitchy_

_And just be mine?_

_I know you want me_

_Everyone does_

_I like your legs_

_Just because_

_I have a question_

_And I'm just hoping_

_Here it is, answer if you please_

_Nice legs, what time they open?"_

He was a literary genius, one of a kind. He really needed to make this a song. He just _knew_ he won the man over with that, there was no way it didn't work -

"THE HELL WAS THAT, YOU FUCKING GIT?!"

Okay, so maybe some people just didn't see genius when it was right in front of them.

"What do you mean!? That was AWESOME! You're just too bitchy to realize it!"

"_**BITCHY**_!?I'LL SHOW YOU_**BITCHY**__!_"

The sound of shattering glass and metallic serving trays splattering against the wall was Alfred's cue to high tail it out of there. He wasn't running, however, it was a strategic retreat. That was manlier, way manlier. He was never one to admit defeat, especially at the hands of a leggy blond Brit that was definitely sexy when pissed off.

Maybe he should research this 'love' shit on Google.


End file.
